Bloody McLaggen
by Elizabeth90
Summary: This is a missing moment of HBP. What really happened when Ginny visited Harry at the hospital wing after his Quidditch injury? Ginny and Harry's musings on their hidden feelings for each other.
1. Hospital Wing Musings

**Author's Note:** I've wanted to write my own version of a missing moment from Book 6 for a long time, but it was hard to find a concept that hadn't been done a hundred thousand times before. I don't think this one has been frequently written, however. It's the scene where Ginny visits Harry in the hospital wing after McLaggen knocks him out in the Quidditch match. I was curious to put my own spin on what she did there and why she went, which is where the H/G fluff comes in. Anyway, all of this (except for the scene with Ginny visiting Harry, which is entirely my own) can be found in Chapter 19 of HBP, "Elf Tails." All of the dialogue with Harry and Ron in the hospital wing at the end is taken from pages 415 – 417 (US hardback).

Enjoy and _please_ remember to review! A review is to an author what getting a puppy for Christmas is to a child. (If that makes any sense.) So please don't forget!

**Disclaimer:** All of it is JK Rowling's; I just like to add my two cents.

Bloody McLaggen.

As much as her brother had been grating on her these past few weeks, she would have gladly traded him anytime for the thick-headed git who was Keeping in his place. Besides being one of the top ten most arrogant people she had ever met, Cormac McLaggen apparently believed he could play every position on the team better than any sentient being in existence. After he had shouted at Ginny for losing possession of the Quaffle—during which he had neglected the goalposts long enough to allow Hufflepuff to score—she began to lose what last threads of temper she had managed to keep hold of.

Swooping low to avoid a Bludger's assault, she called up at his broad-chested scarlet form, "That's it, McLaggen! We all resign from the team in favor of your talent! _Clearly_ you could be a one-man Quidditch team—winning with one hand tied behind your back—while frying an omelet—and juggling kittens—"

McLaggen scowled. Harry, who was passing a few feet overhead (as he had just given McLaggen a piece of his own mind), laughed audibly. She smiled up at him, then pelted after the Quaffle, which was now flying back toward Hufflepuff's end.

Several minutes later, however, McLaggen had returned to playing his game of seeing-how-far-he-could-push-it-before-the-whole-Gryffindor-team-strangled-him.

"No, no, _no_—you're doing it all wrong! Did you see the pathetic back-spin that Bludger had? You _never_ hit it overhand in a situation like that! God, it's a wonder you made the team! Give it here, I'll show you how it's done—"

And forcibly grabbing Peakes's bat, McLaggen proceeded to brandish it like a sword, evidently under the impression he was demonstrating the correct way to hit a Bludger.

This was the last straw for Harry, who had already yelled himself hoarse while telling off the conceited seventh-year. Furious, Harry zoomed down toward McLaggen, who was still energetically swinging Peakes's bat and ignoring the unmanned hoops.

_"Will you give him back his bat and get back to the goalposts!"_ Harry roared, and just as he came up behind McLaggen, the club flailed backward, colliding with Harry's skull with a sickening crunch—

Ginny's stomach seemed to drop through a hole in her abdomen. Forgetting about her pursuit of the Quaffle, she jerked the front of her broom, changed direction in a heartbeat, and bolted toward Harry—his body had slumped—he was sliding sideways off his broom—

The crowd went up in a great shout of surprise and horror (and, she thought vaguely, delight from the Slytherin end), but Harry had only tumbled five nauseating feet before a timely Coote and Peakes dove beneath him, catching him haphazardly on their broomsticks. A piercing blast from Madam Hooch's whistle brought the game to a pause, but Ginny did not draw up and hover in midair like the rest of the players were doing. The crowd's noise only so much insensible clamor in her ears, she flew forward until she was right beside Peakes and Coote, who were maneuvering their brooms gingerly as they lowered themselves to the ground, carrying their captain between them. She sucked in a breath when she saw Harry's state: blood was oozing steadily from a lump at the back of his head, his eyes were tightly shut behind crooked glasses, and his face was pale, too pale—

"How is he?" she found herself gibbering, trailing Coote so closely she was almost right on top of him. "Is he—?"

"He's just unconscious," Peakes supplied breathlessly, as his trainers touched down on the grass of the pitch. Madam Hooch landed beside them and watched beadily as the two Beaters set Harry on the ground. In a businesslike way the referee checked Harry's pulse, opened one eyelid, tutted, and said, "It's the hospital wing for him, he's in no condition to play."

Immediately Ginny said, "I'll take him to—"

"No you will not," said Madam Hooch, looking affronted, "you've got a game to play!"

By now the rest of the Gryffindor team had landed and gathered around. At this they simultaneously burst into protests.

"But our Captain's down!" Demelza cried, looking scandalized. "Not to mention our _Seeker."_

"We can't possibly win!" Dean said indignantly.

"Be that as it may," Madam Hooch huffed, "the rules are the rules, and there's nothing that says the world has to come to an end when theCaptain gets knocked out by his own Keeper—"

It was then that Ginny was reminded as to the cause of this fiasco.

"_You!"_ she spat, whirling around and jabbing a finger into McLaggen's breastbone. His face was shining scarlet, but he did not appear so much ashamed of himself as irritated at the interruption. "_You_ did this! _You _hit Harry, you great idiot!" she snarled, now rampaging forward, so that he was forced to back up.

"_I'm_ the idiot?" McLaggen fumed. "Yes, I'm the idiot, when he's the one that flies straight into my downward swing—if _I'm_ an idiot, then what does that make him?"

Without conscious thought Ginny plunged her hand into her robes pocket for her wand, and this time McLaggen let an emotion other than superiority consume his features: he stumbled a few steps back, eyes widening fearfully. Her reputation as an accomplished jinxer must have spread.

She may have actually cursed him had Demelza and Coote not grabbed her shoulders and shook their heads significantly.

"Not now," Dean muttered, glowering at McLaggen, "save it for later, Ginny, then I'll only be too glad to help you hex him into a piece of belly button lint. . . ."

Luckily Madam Hooch didn't witness this near-fight, as she was busy conjuring a stretcher for Harry and levitating his limp body onto it. Ginny promptly forgot her impulse to punish McLaggen as she hurried back over to the referee.

"Madam Hooch, if I was quick, could I please accompany him—"

But she threw Ginny a scorching look. "Miss Weasley, I am perfectly capable of escorting Potter to the hospital wing myself. Now I _suggest_ you get out there and play." In a raised voice, she called to the stadium at large, "The game restarts in three—two—one!" She gave a sharp blast of her whistle, and Hufflepuff eagerly launched themselves back into the air. The Gryffindor team followed suit less willingly, Ginny's ears still ringing with anger over what had just happened. Try as she might, she couldn't pry the image of Harry falling lifelessly from his broom out of her mind. . . . Her gut was clenched with rage. . . . McLaggen had ruined their chances of winning, _and_ he had harmed Harry . . .

_Bloody_ McLaggen!

Thirty minutes later, the game had come to an agonizing conclusion. The expression of smug triumph on Zacharias Smith's face as Hufflepuff carried the day was unbearable to behold. She resisted the temptation to shoot a good Jelly-Legs Jinx at McLaggen as they trudged their way back into the changing rooms. After listening without comment to her teammates' heated complaints about the turnout, she made up an excuse as to why she couldn't accept Dean's invitation to go to the kitchens for a butterbeer and then went directly to visit Harry.

Their loss didn't seem to matter so much when she rushed into the dimly lit infirmary and spied Harry at one of the end beds, his head wrapped in a turban of bandages, slumped on his pillows and still unconscious. Ron, still locked up in the hospital wing after his poisoning,was sitting up in the bed next to Harry, thumbing very halfheartedly through his Transfiguration textbook and staring down at a length of empty parchment, no doubt trying to get through some of the homework that had piled up over the course of his absence from lessons. When he spotted Ginny, he stuffed the parchment into the book and set it on his bedside table, looking relieved for an excuse to postpone work.

"Hi. Did Hermione just leave?" Ginny asked intuitively; she suspected that would be the only reason Ron would've been prompted to get a head start on homework.

"Er, yeah, she did. Just nipped in to make sure Harry's all right before she went off to study for an Arithmancy test. . . . Said she might come back in later to visit me—I mean him—the both of us." The tips of his ears turning a very interesting shade of pink, Ron glanced at the double doors hopefully, as if willing Hermione to stroll through them at that moment.

Ginny sat down in the chair beside Harry's bed, twisting her hands in her lap agitatedly. "And he is all right, isn't he?"

Her brother raised his eyebrows at the note of desperation in her tone. "He's fine, Ginny. Cracked his skull, according to Madam Pomfrey. You should have heard her go off on a rant about Quidditch-related injuries. . . . Sounded a bit like Mum. . . ."

"He hasn't woken at all yet?" she said, ignoring Ron's chatter.

"No. Well, he only arrived about forty-five minutes ago. You got here fast. I thought you would've still been firing jinxes at McLaggen?"

Ginny snorted. "Not for lack of wanting to. And how'd you know about all that, anyway?"

"Hermione told me," said Ron, looking indecently gleeful. "And I could hear the commentary from down here. Luna's probably the best commentator we've ever had. Outshines Lee Jordan, no problem."

Ginny tried to work her mouth into something like a smile.

"What's the matter with you?" Ron said, frowning slightly. "Well—besides the fact that you just lost the match because McLaggen's a total dimwit . . ."

"Oh—I'm just planning ways to make his life miserable in the future," Ginny lied. In truth her nerves were being eaten at steadily—why wouldn't Harry wake up? She focused her eyes on his ashy face, watching his chest pump slowly up and down. . . . _Wake up, _she begged silently. _Just wake up. Wake up and look at me! I need to see you're all right. . . ._ Quite to her disgust, her eyes started prickling. On the pretense of scratching her nose, she managed to wipe away the tears hastily.

Ron was watching her closely, almost shrewdly. "You don't look all that angry," he pointed out.

Deciding a subject change was in order, Ginny said, "It wasn't a great match from the outset. I mean we started out okay, but McLaggen just messed everything up for us . . ."

"Mmm," said Ron, trying to force sympathy into his tone but only managing to sound delighted.

" . . . And Harry was so late for the match he nearly missed it!"

Ron blinked. "That's weird! Did you find out why?"

But the next second Ginny had leapt to her feet excitedly. "He's waking up!" she exclaimed, for Harry had indeed given a pronounced groan and started to roll over. But when he turned onto his side, he merely muttered something indistinguishable and didn't move again.

"Ah, no, he's not," said Ron, looking disappointed. "What'd he just say?"

"Didn't catch it," said Ginny, sinking back into her chair with a woebegone expression.

"Sounded a bit like 'Ginny,'" said Ron, glancing up at his sister musingly. "But then again it could've just as well been 'Demelza'—I bet he was dreaming about the match."

Ginny, whose heart had given a great start at Ron's words, stared at him witheringly. She could've drawn attention to the fact that "Ginny" and "Demelza" sounded nothing alike, but she refrained. She didn't want Ron thinking she actually _cared_ whether or not Harry had mumbled her name in his sleep.

_And I'm being stupid anyway,_ she thought gloomily, forcing her mind to picture Dean's face. Yes, that was a safe route. Think about Dean. He was nice (except when he was uppity). He liked to have fun and joke around (except when he merely stared at her, her sarcastic humor bouncing off of him). He liked to spend time with her (except when he went off to go snigger in a corner with Parvati and Seamus). He was . . . helpful (almost to a fault—if he tried steering her up the stairs or through the portrait hole like she was a eighty-year-old woman with a peg leg one more time . . .).

Closing her eyes and kneading the lids with her fingers, Ginny sat back and sighed loudly. Dean was a good person. The rebellious side of her brain had no snide remark to make on that. She genuinely liked him and enjoyed being with him. Lately, though . . . lately . . . well, she had begun comparing him with Harry. Almost constantly. This had happened now and again with Michael Corner, of course, but for the most part she had managed to suppress such thoughts around Dean. But as Harry grew more and more prominent in her life—they spent a lot of time together, off and on the pitch—Dean grew . . . less so. It wasn't that she was tiring of him or finding sides of him she disliked. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. He was kind, funny, sweet, thoughtful, but . . . She swallowed hard. He wasn't right for her, because he wasn't Harry.

Ginny despised herself for thinking this for many reasons. For one thing it seemed a blatantly disloyal thing to think. She was with Dean, _not_ with Harry, so Harry shouldn't be more than an afterthought. But he never had been, and (she was beginning to learn) he never could be. For another it seemed a very _stupid_ thing to think, because—she had known Harry for six years, and when had he shown the _slightest_ interest in her before? Because if he had . . . (she sighed again loudly) . . . if he had, matters would be entirely different today. Yet in recent months Ginny had begun to nurse the tiniest shred of hope, one she often scoffed at, yes, but one that she couldn't bring herself to dismiss. . . .

It had started, really, at their first Quidditch match of the season. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Right after Harry had made the winning catch, Ginny had purposely collided into the commentator's stand, sending the odious Zacharias Smith into a heap of wreckage down below. After Professor McGonagall had chastised her and taken ten points from Gryffindor (though she looked as though she were repressing a smile with difficulty—at least, the corners of her thin mouth had been twitching in a way they normally didn't), Harry had hugged her. It was the first really close contact with Harry that Ginny had ever had, and she still remembered it vividly. Harry had enfolded her in his arms, breathed in deeply once over her shoulder, and then, perhaps two seconds later, he had withdrawn, looking anywhere but at her and greeting Ron's exuberant arrival beside him with a cheer that was a bit too hearty to be realistic. She had watched him, somewhat shocked and more than a little unsure of what to think. But of course she had found ways to write it off as just a friendly hug of camaraderie, because Harry couldn't like _her._ Not after all this. Not after years of regarding her as Ron's tagalong sister.

Could he?

And then of course there was the dreadful night Harry had walked in on Dean and her. Snogging. This had occurred before the Quidditch hug, but she had never considered Harry's reaction to it carefully until she had reason to believe it might require further analyzing. Even reflecting back on it, Ginny had to pinch her eyes shut in revulsion at the memory. Harry and her brother—two of the _least_ people in the world whom she wanted catching her in the act of kissing her boyfriend.

She blamed Dean. She had been fully prepared to return to Gryffindor Tower to relax after a rigorous training session, but Dean had smiled and made a detour behind the tapestry. He'd initiated the whole thing. If she had gone with her instincts and just marched on up to finish her Herbology homework, the whole debacle might've been avoided.

Ginny would never forget the sudden burst of light on the edge of her vision as the tapestry was yanked aside, or the stunned faces that she looked into once she broke apart from Dean. Ron's steadily reddening expression had been contorted with a mixture of shock and horror, as though witnessing something that both nauseated him and slightly gave him the creeps. Harry's . . . Harry's was harder to interpret. At first it was all-out astonishment, but then, as the argument progressed, he had been staring at Dean with . . . was it an _accusatory_ expression? On any other boy she would have pinpointed it as jealousy, but on Harry, the mere idea was laughable.

Wasn't it?

It had been partially embarrassment and dismay that Harry was present that had caused Ginny to react so violently to Ron's yowling. _Why,_ in the name of all that was fair, had _Harry_ had to see her like this? Generally she wasn't one for sickeningly obvious displays of affection (_unlike Won-Won and his partner-in-snogging,_ she thought scornfully), and the fact remained that it had been a perfectly concealed niche before they had come butting in. She still felt guilty, though, as if Harry had watched her doing something indecent. Cheating on him, even . . .

_Don't be stupid,_ she told herself, for the fifth or sixth time that week (usually concerning the same subject).

Consumed in dark thoughts, Ginny broadened a rip in the arm of the chair and began to distractedly pull out pieces of stuffing. . . . Ron had propped his Transfiguration book back on his knees and was twirling a dog-eared quill in one hand, staring at the double doors with a glazed expression.

Ginny, broken from her trance, glanced at the doors too, knowing what was on Ron's mind. "I doubt Hermione'll be in so soon," she said heavily. "You know how long she takes studying for tests, Ron. But don't worry, I'm sure she'll come back."

"Yeah . . . yeah, I reckon so—but how did you—I mean, you don't know I was thinking about . . ." But he tailed off, seeing by her raised eyebrow that he wasn't going to convince anybody.

"Be honest with yourself, Ron," Ginny said softly. "I know it's not Lavender you're hoping to see, judging by the fact that you pretend to be asleep whenever she comes within a mile of you."

"Yeah . . . well . . ." Ron hedged, both ears flaming by now as he fiddled with his bed sheets.

"Ron," said Ginny firmly, "it would be much, _much_ kinder of you to end it with Lavender now, before she gets any more hurt—"

"I don't need love advice from my little sister!" Ron retorted hotly.

"You need love advice from _someone._ Though I do forget what a Casanova you are . . . what was it you got Lavender for Christmas? A bottle of Self-Correcting Ink, wasn't that it?"

"Shut up," Ron muttered. "Dead useful, that stuff is."

"Yes," Ginny said, her smirk growing wider, "yes, I suppose it's better than what she got you, you sweetheart, you—"

"Shut up!" Ron said more loudly, chucking a pillow at her. She caught it and laughed. "How'd you find out about that!"

When Ginny merely giggled in response, Ron groaned and gave the invalid in the bed between them a furious glare. "I'll be having words with my prat of a best friend when he wakes up."

"_Really,_ now." The aproned figure of Madam Pomfrey bustled from her office, looking stern. "There is quite enough noise out here! This is an infirmary, for heaven's sake, not a circus."

"Sorry," chorused Ginny and Ron, and the nurse retreated to her office, chuntering under her breath.

"But really," Ginny continued, brushing some hair behind her ear, "it's better I found out about the necklace than the twins. They'd have found a way to tattoo 'My Sweetheart' across your forehead by now."

Ron shrugged, still looking a little grumpy. "I s'ppose that's a fair point. Just make sure you keep your mouth _closed _about that necklace. Got it?"

"I don't know . . . that's rather quality blackmail right there . . ." At Ron's fearsome scowl, she amended with a grin, "Yes, yes, I promise. I haven't said anything yet, have I?"

"Good, 'cause I don't fancy all of Gryffindor knowing about it. I've already had to endure Lavender chasing me around asking me why I'm not wearing the sick thing."

"Imagine Hermione's reaction if you did," Ginny giggled.

At this remark Ron's eyes promptly flicked back to the double doors. Ginny left him to his contemplation of the infirmary's entrance as she smiled to herself, envisioning the appalled scowl that would contort Hermione's features should Ron start parading around with the label of Lavender's sweetheart, like a dog wearing his collar to show ownership.

Thinking of Hermione led her down a track uncomfortably similar to the one her mind had been pounding a couple of minutes before. Just last week Hermione had broached a certain topic with Ginny and had hinted at things that seemed—well, ridiculous, and at the same time all too interesting . . .

Over the course of the past summer, Fred and George had happily assured their sister many times over that fifth year was to a student as leg amputation is to a hospital patient. She hadn't truly appreciated their words until fifth year had begun, however. The sheer amount of homework each night was astounding, and now, as their Ordinary Wizarding Levels loomed ever nearer, it was intensifying even more. Thus it was not surprising at all that Ginny had found herself closeted in the library on that fateful evening a week ago, a small mountain of books piled beside her and the nasty prospect of four three-foot-long essays to write by night's end. Hermione, who had claimed she needed to put the finishing touches on a complex diagram for Ancient Runes, had accompanied her; and so they sat together at a table, hardly talking except to check a fact or request having a book passed to them.

In an hour Hermione had completed the diagram and busily began putting away her supplies. Ginny had assumed she would be left alone to muddle through her Defense Against the Dark Arts essay ("Using no less than thirteen examples, explain the various countercharms you would use to ward off a banshee's assault"). But Hermione lingered, watching Ginny with a singularly purposeful air.

"Yes?" Ginny said wearily, her quill flying across the parchment.

"I wanted to talk to you. Are you busy?"

"If you call having a hundred and fifty things to do and not enough hours left in the day to do them being 'busy,' then yes, I'm a tiny bit busy. But go on, I could use a break, my eyes are going crossed." Ginny set down her quill and massaged her hand with a wince.

"It's about Harry."

Immediately Ginny was all ears. "Is something wrong with him?"

"Not exactly . . ." Hermione scrutinized Ginny's face craftily. "Have you noticed anything—different about him lately?"

"Well, he's been a bit worried about Ron, but that's—"

"Not that kind of different. I mean in how he treats, ah, certain people around him."

Ginny squinted. "Is he being all moody and snappish again with you and Ron?"

"_No._ It's not a bad thing, it's—" Finally Hermione just came out and said it. "I mean have you noticed a difference in how he treats _you?"_

Ginny grew quiet. She sifted through the stack of books in front of her, not replying for several seconds as she searched for her Defense book. When she located it and could stall no longer, she flipped to the front page and said, "I don't know what you mean, Hermione."

Hermione quirked up an eyebrow. "Don't you? Surely you must have noticed how much time he spends around you . . ."

"Banshees, banshees . . ." Ginny whispered distractedly, running a finger down the contents. She turned to page fifty-three and said, "No, I haven't actually." Which was a lie. A complete, total, blatant lie, and Hermione didn't seem to be fooled. "All right," Ginny conceded impatiently, knowing there was no point in denying it, "yes I have, but it's probably only because with Ron off snogging Lavender and you doing homework or prefect duties, there're not a lot of options left for company."

Hermione, whose face had tautened briefly at the mention of Ron and Lavender, shook her head. "We're not _that_ busy. Ginny, maybe you haven't caught it, but _I_ have, and sometimes he looks at you, and he . . ."

"He _what,_ Hermione?" Ginny's eyes flashed dangerously, but her heartbeat had increased.

Determined to say her piece, Hermione pursed her lips. "Do you really need me to elaborate? I'm not blind, Ginny, and I don't think you are either. It's not as if the boy's terribly subtle."

"What are you suggesting? Because if you're suggesting what it sounds like you're suggesting, I'll book you a bed next to Harry and Ron in the hospital wing. You must not be in your right mind."

"What I'm trying to tell you is, unless I've suddenly started hallucinating, Harry likes—"

"Don't say it, Hermione."

"Why not?"

"Because . . ." Ginny struggled to express herself. "Because—because it's been six years, _six years._ And for four of those years I waited for him. I'm dating Dean now, I'm not—I can't—" She realized her voice was shaking, so she quickly shut her mouth.

Hermione stared at her intently. "I thought you should know."

Ginny averted her gaze, feeling her cheeks heat up. "Maybe you're wrong."

"What if I'm not?"

Ginny had no reply to that. Hermione stood up, smiled, patted her on the shoulder, and left the library. Ginny gaped absentmindedly into space for fifteen minutes before recalling the mound of homework waiting for her. She made little headway, however, considering the fact that Hermione had given her a lot more to mull over than proper methods of repelling banshees.

_What am I supposed to do?_ Ginny thought now, her eyes riveted on Harry's still face. But of course there was only one reasonable answer to this question: absolutely nothing. She was dating Dean. Period. And did she really _know_ Hermione's speculations were correct? Admittedly Hermione did have a very keen grasp of others' emotions, but she was only human, after all, as prone to make mistakes as anyone. Perhaps she was mistaking brotherly affection for _affection­_-affection. So there was nothing to do but wait and see. And Ginny was very good at that, having done it on a regular basis since she was ten.

"I'd probably better go," she said regretfully. "I told Dean I'd be back by now, he thinks I went to see Professor Flitwick about a Charms assignment."

Ron gave her a rather sharp look, but he did not question Ginny as to why she had told Dean she was visiting a teacher rather than visiting Harry.

"All right, 'bye then," Ron said, as Ginny stood and stretched. "I'll tell Harry you stopped by when he wakes up. Give McLaggen a hex from me."

"See you. Feel better."

Ginny's hand was on the door handle when Ron, after struggling with himself for a few seconds, burst out, "And—and tell Hermione she can come in whenever she wants!"

Hiding a smirk, Ginny waved to show she had heard and then left the infirmary, although not before throwing one last fleeting glance at Harry. He was still unconscious . . . She felt a small twinge of regret that she hadn't gotten a chance to talk to him—but it was most likely for the best. Whatever happened would happen, she resolved, and she could decide how to react to it when it did.

When Harry awoke some hours later, his head felt strangely heavy. Golden lamplight was glowing down on him, and he seemed to be lying in a bed. . . .

What had happened? The last thing he remembered was the match . . . a flash of light, distant screams, a crippling pain in his head . . .

Blinking drowsily, Harry opened his eyes and looked around to see Ron grinning at him from the neighboring bed.

"Nice of you to drop in," he said.

It was evening outside. The match was long finished. Groaning, Harry reached up and fingered the turban of bandages around his head. The next few minutes passed in a blur of anger as Madam Pomfrey bustled in to inform him that he had a cracked skull and that consequently he must stay in overnight so as not to overexert himself. But staying still and wallowing in a bed all night was the last thing he felt like doing, not when he would've liked nothing better than to encounter McLaggen in a deserted corridor armed only with his wand and his knowledge of some of the Half-Blood Prince's best jinxes.

"D'you know how much we lost by?" Harry gritted out, as the nurse flounced back to her office.

"Well, yeah I do. Final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty."

Ron attempted to sound as annoyed as Harry that they had lost, but he did a poor job of it. In his mind, the fact that McLaggen had irreparably wrecked his Quidditch career at Hogwarts could only be good news; it meant, for one, that nobody would be unfavorably comparing McLaggen to Ron when Ron returned to the team. Harry merely sat and fumed as his friend guffawed about the match and about Luna's rather unconventional commentary.

After a pause, Ron said, "Ginny came in to visit you while you were unconscious."

And with those simple words, a vivid mental image exploded into the forefront of Harry's mind. He imagined Ginny, looking grief-stricken (but in a very pretty way) as tears streamed down her face; her eyes were glued onto Harry's motionless body as she confessed feelings of deep attraction to him. Meanwhile, an uncharacteristically grave Ron looked on and gave them his blessing. It was so vivid that Harry half-believed it was real.

Until Ron said, ". . . She reckons you only just arrived on time for the match. How come? You left here early enough."

Just like that the image dissolved. "Oh . . ." said Harry, crestfallen. "Yeah, well . . ."

As he proceeded to fill Ron in on his meeting with Draco Malfoy just before the match, a part of Harry's brain couldn't help but wonder about Ginny. The fantasy had been very pleasant, despite the fact that it had lasted for all of two and a half seconds. He didn't know why he always jumped to the most illogical conclusions about that sort of thing. The idea that Ginny liked him was ludicrous. Yes, she had harbored feelings for him in years past, he had known that—_everyone_ had known that. But she had given up on him, Hermione had said it herself, and when was Hermione ever wrong? And how often was it that girls returned to fancying the boys they had closed the book on ages ago? It seemed too improbable that she might actually like him as much as he liked her. . . . The fact remained that she had never, throughout the course of the year, given him any sign of infatuation. Not a solitary blush. He didn't think he'd ever miss something as trivial as someone blushing, but right now there was little he wouldn't give for a good, old-fashioned, to-the-roots-of-her-flaming-hair Ginny blush. If he could just get a _sign, _some concrete evidence . . .

Yet she had visited him, hadn't she, out of her own initiative? Granted, there had probably not been much in the way of confessing attraction or receiving blessings, but just the fact that she had visited him after his injury was surely evidence that—

Evidence of _what?_ his practical side growled. That she's your friend? Well, you_ knew_ that already!

This was no good. His thoughts kept leading him around in circles. Moreover there was the huge, gaping, inescapable problem of Dean. He and Dean were roommates; he had always gotten on very well with Dean; and Dean just happened to be dating Ginny. _No way around that one, Potter,_ he sighed to himself. How could anything happen when she was dating Harry's friend (whatever Harry's aggressive feelings toward Dean at the moment, he knew Dean, at least, still counted Harry as his friend)? And how could Ginny like Harry if she was dating Dean? When had the whole situation gotten so complicated, anyway? . . .

Harry knew that he shouldn't think of Ginny in the way that he did. First of all she was Ron's sister, second of all she was dating Dean, and third of all—_she was Ron's sister._ Harry should force himself to forget her, make himself abandon all the warm butterflies that erupted in his stomach whenever she was around. . . .

But Harry knew that that would no sooner happen than him grabbing her and kissing her in front of all of Gryffindor House.

And that idea was _especially_ ridiculous.

Wasn't it?


	2. The Fight

**Author's Note: **One of my reviewers for the first chapter of this pointed out to me that what I was missing was the scene in which Ginny and Dean rowed about Harry's injury. I'm amazed I didn't think of it myself, but I am grateful for the suggestion. So—here's the second chapter. Also, all the dialogue in the part where Harry interrogates Hermione about Ginny/Dean is taken from pages 423 – 424 in the US hardback of HBP. Please review!

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not JK Rowling and thus don't own anything. Sadly.

When Ginny strode back into the common room, she had her excuse fully planned as to why she had taken so long on her alleged visit to Professor Flitwick. She had expected that Dean might be waiting around for her in one of the chairs near the portrait hole; but no, there he was sitting at the back of the room, encircled by Lavender, Seamus, and Parvati and roaring with laughter at some highly amusing joke. Ginny had to work not to make a face as she trotted toward them—Parvati and Seamus were all right, but Lavender was grating on her nerves more and more often lately. One reason, obviously, was the girl's absolutely vomit-inducing behavior toward Ron; but another reason that Ginny's patience wore thin with Lavender was the fact that she enjoyed complaining about Hermione (her bookishness, Ron's relationship with her, her know-it-all mannerisms, and Ron's relationship with her were just a few favorite topics). This was a habit that had earned Lavender more than one sharp telling off from Ginny.

"Hi," the latter said now, dropping off her book bag in one armchair and then sitting down in another.

"Oh, hey, Ginny," said Dean, wiping at his eyes, which had been watering from mirth. "We were just talking about the Quidditch match."

Ginny raised one eyebrow quizzically. "Is that really something to laugh about? We lost, remember? —Where is McLaggen, anyway? I wanted to use him for target practice."

Parvati, Seamus, and Dean laughed. She didn't bother telling them she hadn't really been joking.

"He's gone off somewhere, probably to hide," Seamus replied with satisfaction. "Everyone was glaring at him and a few people came _this_ close"—he held up a hand to show thumb and index finger an inch apart—"to hexing him. So he ran out of here pretty fast."

"But that's not what we were laughing about," Parvati snickered.

Ginny mustered a smile. "What's so funny, then?"

"Dean, do your impression again!" Lavender squealed.

At once Dean stood up and started energetically miming something. . . . It looked like someone getting whacked with a hard object and then falling off of something . . . a broomstick. . . .

The rest of Dean's audience was sliding down their seats, clutching their stomachs as they roared with enjoyment at his ridiculously crossed eyes and flailing arms, but Ginny was rooted to the spot, torn between sheer disgust and boiling outrage. Before she knew what she was doing, she had stood up abruptly, planting herself solidly in Dean's path so that he had to stop his flapping about and meet her face-to-face.

Flushed with laughter, Dean wobbled a little as he came to a halt in front of her. She merely stared at him; her face was also reddening, but with the anger leaping up like flames in the back of her throat.

"What is this supposed to be?" she found herself saying stiffly.

"Ah, come on, Ginny, you know!" Dean crowed.

"No, I don't. And unless it was you pantomiming McLaggen being pushed to his death from the top of a fifty-foot cliff, then I really can't find it funny at all."

"It was Harry! At the match today, when McLaggen rammed half his brains out with that club—didn't you see, Ginny? I've never seen a stupider-looking fall—"

At these words Lavender, Parvati, and Seamus had all begun guffawing again, but Ginny had never been farther from hilarity.

"A _stupid-looking fall?"_ she repeated incredulously. "Don't be a prat! He could've been killed!"

Dean shrugged. "Oh please, Coote and Peakes caught him in a second, didn't they? And he's not so bad off, Demelza told me he had a—"

"Cracked skull! There's nothing funny about that, Dean!"

"He'll heal!" said Dean indignantly.

"That's not the point. You shouldn't make fun of something like that, it could've been fatal!"

"Yeah, but it _wasn't._ Do you honestly think I'd be acting that out if Harry _had_ died?"

"Don't you care that he's—"

"What? Got a hole in his head for the night? I'm not that fussed, to be honest, Madam Pomfrey can fix that sort of thing in a minute! Anyway, I mean, he _did _sort of ask for it, coming right at someone who's waving around a bat . . ."

Chortling, Dean pretended to swing a large invisible Beater's bat. It was then that Lavender had the supreme misfortune of giggling shrilly. The look Ginny gave her a second later was reminiscent of the way a lion might eye a zebra right before it rips its head off. The giggle caught in Lavender's throat and seemed to lodge there; she looked somewhat scandalized.

"C'mon, Lavender," Parvati muttered in a dignified sort of voice. She took her friend's hand and they hurried away to whisper together mutinously in another corner.

Ginny turned to pointedly glare at Seamus, who was still lounging on the couch in front of them.

"Oh—I—er—sorry, I'll just . . ." Seamus stammered. Scratching the back of his neck embarrassedly, he mumbled something about unfinished Transfiguration homework and darted off with the air of a man glad to be getting away.

"What'd you make them go for?" Dean demanded, his good cheer fast replaced by annoyance.

"Because," said Ginny levelly, "this is between you and me. They don't have to see it."

"Sorry, but _what's_ between you and me? Other than you getting worked up about NOTHING?"

The volume of Dean's voice had risen dramatically on that last word; a group of fourth years seated nearby turned to goggle at them, and Ginny distinctly saw Romilda Vane smirking unpleasantly at the fact that she and Dean were rowing.

"You don't have to shout . . ." Ginny began, but the look on his face said that he was _going_ to shout whether he had to or not. For caution's sake she flicked her wand and said, "_Muffliato." _At once a gentle buzzing noise hummed in the ears of those surrounding the pair, rendering their conversation noiseless to anyone except them.

Dean frowned, taken aback. "What was that spell you just did?"

"_Muffliato._ Keeps nosy gits from listening in. Harry taught it to me."

Dean's expression contorted once more. "Oh _Harry _taught it to you, did he?"

"Yes," said Ginny, nonplussed.

"Why're you so angry about this whole thing anyway?" Dean continued sulkily. "I was only having a laugh about Harry getting hit, and you go off and have kittens about it—"

"I am _NOT_ having kittens!" Ginny yelled, an assertion quite at odds with the loudness of her voice and the fury in her eyes. Her common sense was whispering pragmatically, _Shut up, Ginny, shut up, you're not doing anyone favors by alienating Dean._ But her rogue mouth kept on going.

"_Just _because I don't like you making fun of what could've very well been a horrible situation—"

"Don't give me that, it wasn't even that hard of a hit! But that's just like a woman, being overdramatic and making everything ten times worse than it really was . . ."

"I'm being overdramatic? _I'm _being overdramatic? Well, I'd much prefer being an overdramatic girl than a boy with my head shoved up my—"

"Ginny!" called Hermione from across the room, apparently just having returned from the library, as she was weighed down with what looked like half the Arithmancy Section. Dumping a load of books onto the nearest table, she waved Ginny over and said, "If you're not too busy, would you like to quiz me on formulas?"

But Ginny knew perfectly well that Hermione didn't need anyone to quiz her—she was quite capable of studying adeptly by herself. More likely the older girl was just trying to bail Ginny out of a potentially nasty situation.

For several seconds Ginny was tempted to refuse, just so she could continue her argument with Dean (which, at the same time as being utterly frustrating, was somewhat satisfying as well, though she would never admit it to herself). Then sense kicked in; Hermione was being her usual sagacious self, offering her a way out. And at least this way she wouldn't be up into the late hours of the night, bickering herself hoarse.

"I'd better go, Dean, I don't think I'm going to convince you of anything tonight," Ginny said curtly, picking her book bag up off the armchair and slinging it across one shoulder.

"Or any other night," he retorted. "Maybe I'll just go sit with _them."_ He gestured in the direction of Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati, who were watching avidly and pretending not to be. "At least _they _know how to have fun." And with that he swaggered away.

The angry comeback was on the tip of Ginny's tongue, but she swallowed it back with difficulty. Let Dean be immature; that was fine with her. With the air of a solider marching away from bloody battle, Ginny stumped over to Hermione's study table and plunked down across from her.

Ginny expected Hermione to resume her perusal of a month's worth of Arithmancy notes, but, once again, she surprised Ginny by shoving the jumble of parchment and books to the side and surveying her friend knowingly.

"What's happened now, then?"

"We had a row," said Ginny, rather abashedly.

"I could tell that, even if you _did_ quiet it down with one of those stupid Prince spells." As usual Hermione looked sour at the merest mention of the ingenious Half-Blood Prince.

"Yes, well, passing over that," said Ginny hastily, not wanting to linger on the sore subject, "Dean was being tactless, and I told him off for it, and he got snappy with me. That's all there is to it."

"Hmm." Hermione picked at her cuticles casually. "What did you row about, exactly?"

Ginny neglected to answer for a short while; she really _didn't_ want to see the smug glint that would surely be in Hermione's eye should she hear the truth.

"Well, it was over the Quidditch match, mainly," Ginny replied, evasive as you please. "Dean and the rest were laughing at when—when McLaggen knocked Harry out . . ."

Sure enough, there was that telltale glint in Hermione's eye, along with a wide smile that really didn't fit the situation at all.

"What're you so happy about?" Ginny asked suspiciously.

"Nothing." Hermione quickly composed her features into sober interest once more. "So, what did you say to him?"

"I told him a fellow member of our Quidditch team nearly getting _killed_ isn't something to howl at like monkeys, it's lucky Harry isn't really hurt, and he should shut his fat mouth about it."

"Well, I quite agree!" said Hermione, looking alarmed at the very mention of Harry's accident. "It looked awful from a spectator's point-of-view, I can't imagine what it must've looked like from the air. I mean to say, if he'd just dropped without Coote and Peakes there to save him, what would've happened?"

Ginny didn't bother concealing a wince. "Don't even say that."

"Yes, you're right . . . that's not the question to ask. No, the question I _should_ be asking is, why are _you_ so upset about Dean making fun of McLaggen hitting Harry?"

"Did that sentence even make sense?" said Ginny, wrinkling her nose.

"It made perfect sense, Ginny. Haven't you asked yourself why you're so distressed by this? After all, Harry isn't _really_ badly hurt, it would be okay to shake your head and laugh at what happened, I'm sure once he wakes up and cools down a bit he'll—"

"No, it wouldn't be okay!" said Ginny emphatically. "That's not the point, it's that he—"

"Ginny." Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"But . . . well, fine then, maybe I am a bit . . ." To her horror Ginny could feel herself flushing again. "Well, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm suggesting that perhaps it's not quite natural for you, as a friend, to be so overprotective of Harry . . . unless you were more than a—"

"Why are you trying to push this with me?" Ginny interrupted furiously. "Didn't we just talk about this?" Lowering her voice, she hissed, "I'm with Dean. _Dean._ Harry doesn't matter!"

She faltered as the lie passed through her lips. An uncomfortable silence fell between them for a minute or two. Well, an uncomfortable silence for Ginny—Hermione seemed to be almost enjoying herself.

"I don't mean to be pushy," the latter went on primly, after a pause, "but I am trying to make you see things clearly. . . . Maybe you two shouldn't go on suppressing your feelings like this. It's just unhealthy."

"Well I'm not going to go off and—wait, what d'you mean, _'you two'?"_

"You and Harry. _You_ _two."_

Disgruntled, Ginny shook her head. "Hermione, if you're still going on about this Harry-liking-me stuff . . ."

"I draw my own conclusions based on keen observation. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to, but I'm sure a day will come when you will." The corners of Hermione's mouth twitched.

Ginny shrugged, as though quite unfazed. "Fair enough, Hermione. And in the meantime, I'll draw my own conclusions, which are that Dean is a git and _you're_ acting like a nutter."

Hermione merely chuckled good-naturedly in response. Then she glanced down at her watch and gasped. "Oh _no,_ is that really the time? Where is the night going! I still have to study for Arithmancy, finish my antidote list for Potions, and then there's that prefects' meeting at seven—and I still have to have time to visit Ron! —And Harry," she added hastily.

"Ron's really counting on you to do that," Ginny put in, happy to steer the conversation away from her own love life. "Kept mentioning it when I saw him."

"Did he really?" Hermione asked, and for a moment her expression became quite unfocused.

"Yeah, which is quite a bit different from what he does whenever Lavender tries to visit—he always fakes sleep to avoid seeing her. Lavender whines about it nonstop, you should hear her go on . . ."

"Ron fakes sleep whenever Lavender's around?" Hermione repeated, as though to confirm she had all the facts straight. When Ginny nodded, Hermione sat back with a pleased smirk; she had the features of a girl who'd just been given a large and extravagant birthday present.

"If you ask me, they'll be over soon, Ron and Lavender," Ginny said bracingly. "They don't even kiss that much anymore. When they are together, it's usually Lavender pouting at Ron for one slight or another. And Ron's hardly trying to make amends. He seems to want to chuck her as soon as possible."

At this Hermione appeared irritated again. "If he wants to get rid of her so much then why doesn't the great coward do it himself?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "It's _Ron,_ Hermione. You know how he is. He'd sooner gnaw off his own foot than try to have a serious conversation with a girl, especially a girl with temper tantrums as bad as the ones Lavender can throw."

Hermione heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh. "All the same . . ."

Remembering what Hermione had said about being pressed for time, Ginny shook herself from a stupor and then selected a sheet of notes from the table in front of her. With distaste she examined the complex equations scrawled there, then asked, "Did you want me to quiz you, then? . . . Hey, what's this drawn in the margin? Wait—is that an R and a—"

At once Hermione woke from her own reverie. She snatched the parchment from Ginny's hand, crimson staining her cheeks as she said brusquely, "_Yes, _I'll have that back now, please."

Ginny bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling. She had distinctly seen an intricate sketch of the letters _R_ and _H_ intertwined.

Obviously embarrassed, Hermione started stuffing items at random into her bag. "Thanks, but you don't have to do that, I think I'm going to stop by the hospital wing now. See if Harry's up, you know . . ."

Ginny had to work to hide another smirk; she _highly_ doubted Hermione cared a great deal whether Harry was conscious or not. Either way her main focus would no doubt be the redheaded boy in the bed beside his. Why Hermione would fancy her brother Ginny couldn't altogether fathom, but then again as Ron's sister she supposed her opinion_ was_ bound to be biased.

"Ron'll be pleased," she said smoothly.

Hermione didn't respond, still busily putting things away, but the color in her cheeks darkened even more so. With a wave of her wand she banished her books and bag to her dormitory; then, with a somewhat smug air, she turned back to Ginny. "Well, see you later. Unless you want to come? I don't know if Harry will be awake yet, but if he is I'm _sure_ he'd want to talk to you."

Now it was Ginny's turn to redden. She opened her mouth for an automatic yes, but on the whole decided it was a bad idea. For one thing, Ron would be perturbed that she had come back after barely half an hour away (besides, he probably didn't want Hermione to be accompanied by anyone). And two . . . what if Harry _was_ up? She had promised herself to keep a distance, hadn't she?

"Sorry, but I can't." Ginny pulled a convincing grimace of displeasure. "Got a load of History of Magic homework . . . I'm going to _kill_ Professor Binns—well, I would, if he weren't already dead. . . ."

With a laugh Hermione strode toward the portrait hole and disappeared. Ginny was left sitting alone at the table, resolutely not so much as peeking in the direction of Dean. Instead she tugged her History of Magic homework from her bag, but only succeeded in writing a few lines before her brain carried her off again.

Hermione had asked her why she'd reacted so strongly to the way Dean had mocked Harry. She hadn't said as much to Hermione, but there was a cut-and-dried reason for that. . . .

Absentmindedly Ginny began to sketch in a corner of her parchment, not aware of what she was doing, her quill seemingly making the strokes of its own accord. . . .

Though she would deny it to her last breath, there was a _very_ good reason for her reaction to Dean's ridicule of Harry. . . .

When she glanced down and finally realized what it was she was drawing, Ginny saw that the answer lay on the parchment before her. Nestled in the bottom corner of her essay on nineteenth century goblin wars, written in flourishing script, were two entwined initials: _HP + GW._

Crumpling the parchment up and lobbing it into the fire over the heads of a group of second years, Ginny sighed grimly. Thoughts like that made her feel guilt-ridden and depressed, and yet . . . at the same time . . . very, flutteringly happy.

_The root of all my troubles, and the cause for all my happiness,_ she reflected irritably, picturing Harry's face in her mind's eye. _Just like a boy._

**The Next Day**

Harry walked down the corridor with Ron and Hermione by his side, marveling at the fact that they were all friends again—Hermione had clearly decided that she could forgive Ron in light of his near-death experience. Harry wasn't really paying attention to anything but how appealing breakfast sounded at the moment when Hermione said unexpectedly, "It was a bit tense last night in the common room, you know. Dean and Ginny had an argument."

Harry's head jerked toward Hermione; the monster in his chest awoke from hibernation.

"What did they row about?"

But at that moment Hermione's concentration was deflected, as a small girl in front of them dropped the scales she'd been holding. Harry waited impatiently while Hermione kindly repaired the scales with a tap of her wand; as they walked away, he persisted, "Never mind her. What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?"

"Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludger at you." Fortunately Harry didn't notice the smug smile on her face as she said it.

Ron shrugged. "It must've looked funny."

Hermione launched into a lecture about how it had hardly looked funny, but before she could get into full flow Harry said, as casually as he could, "Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to split up over it." At the expression that came over Hermione's face at this, he amended hastily, "Or are they still together?" His heart was sinking even as he said it.

"Yes, they are—but why are you so interested?"

Harry couldn't remember what he next told her—he thought vaguely it had been some excuse about the Quidditch team. He was most relieved when Luna called out to them from behind, which redirected Hermione's attention. The last thing he needed was for her to deduce his feelings for Ginny. True, she might offer useful advice, but at the same time she might be pushy about his acting on it, or, worse, she might tell Ron. Anyway, his insides all but squirmed in embarrassment at the thought of trying to have in-depth conversations with her about how he felt. . . . It wasn't just some pretty girl he had hardly known, as Cho had been; it was _Ginny,_ for heaven's sake. . . .

But his spirits lifted once more as he savored the fact that Ginny and Dean had fought. And over him as well . . . well, more specifically his injury, but it still essentially came down to the same thing, didn't it? . . .

Harry was probably more cheerful for the rest of the day than he had any right to be, given that they had lost the match spectacularly the day before. But of course, Ginny always had that effect on him.

When he returned to the common room after supper that evening, it was to find Dean sitting alone in an armchair by the fire, his Charms textbook open in front of him. He wasn't reading, however, judging by the fact that his glaring eyes never moved. Hermione had chosen a seat nearby to do some homework of her own, and as Harry went to her and sat down he couldn't help smirking to himself. He thought he knew what was causing Dean such displeasure.

Hermione was consulting some notes she had made for herself and frowning. "I've got so much to do; you wouldn't believe the number of assignments Professor Vector gave us!"

"Really?" yawned Harry, stretching languorously in his chair and throwing another smug look over at Dean.

"Haven't you got anything to do?" Hermione said waspishly.

"Yeah," said Harry without concern, "but I figure it can wait . . . I can just do it in one of my free periods tomorrow. Frankly, I don't feel at all like studying. I've sworn it off for the night."

Hermione gave him her patented "you'll-regret-your-laziness-later" look, then started yanking materials from her bag.

Harry couldn't let her warning bother him, however. His smugness grew tenfold when, a moment later, Ron and Ginny came through the portrait hole together, and instead of sitting with Dean, who was only a few feet away, Ginny plopped down next to Harry.

Ron was quick to pick up on this. Throwing a sly glance over at Dean (who was glaring more determinedly into his book than ever), Ron said in a carrying whisper, "You chuck the git yet, then?"

"You chucked Lavender yet?" Ginny retorted in an undertone. "And don't call him a git, Ron. . . . Hi, Harry."

"Hey." Harry smiled.

Hermione sniffed at the mention of Lavender. Ron himself looked around nervously, as if checking to ensure the coast was clear.

"Is she here yet?"

Harry gave the room a brief scan. "I don't think so."

"Good, because she always expects me to sit with her, and then she makes me do stupid couples' quizzes in _Witch Weekly_ or prods me about how I '_really_ feel' about her." Ron shuddered.

"And what do you say?" Ginny asked, amused.

Ron colored slightly. "Oh—I dunno—just that . . . I dunno, I like her all right and everything. . . ."

Ginny and Hermione rolled their eyes in unison.

Ron looked exhausted. "But I don't even know if that's so true anymore."

"Why don't you break it off with her?" Hermione demanded rather severely.

Ron screwed up his face. "Because I think she'd hurt me."

Ginny and Harry laughed; Hermione harrumphed and Ron scowled.

"I'm serious!" he said indignantly. "She's probably up in her room now, practicing the Cruciatus Curse in the event of me breaking up with her."

"Her?" Hermione wrinkled her nose scornfully. "She can't even do a _Summoning_ Charm, let alone any good jinxes, let alone the Cruciatus Curse. She was one of the worst in the D.A., I remember that. . . ."

"I don't remember that," said Harry honestly. "I always thought the Creevey brothers were the—" He shut up when Hermione glowered at him.

Ginny cocked her head. "I could teach Lavender the Bat-Bogey Hex. She'd be a slow student, but it might be worth it; when we see you with great flapping things all over your face we'll know you've broken up with her."

Harry chuckled. Ron wasn't amused.

"I don't know if I'll ever break up with her," he mumbled to himself.

Hermione's hand jerked so badly that her quill made a foot-long streak across the essay she was writing. "_What did you say?"_

Ron waved a placating hand. "It's just—I hope she ends it with me first, you know?"

"Don't be such a coward about it, it can't be _that_ bad—"

"You don't know her that well, Hermione! You know her boyfriend last year left Hogwarts and never came back!"

"That's because he was a _seventh year_—honestly, Ronald—"

Ginny and Harry watched them bicker for a few minutes more, before Ginny nudged Harry and said, "Fancy studying in the library? I doubt we'll get any work done with these two going at it."

"Yeah," said Harry at once, grabbing his books. "Yeah, I reckon so."

"Where're you two going?" Curious, Hermione postponed her debate with Ron.

"Oh—er—to the library to study," Harry said, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had sworn to Hermione that he would not study tonight.

Hermione smiled sweetly. "Oh. Have fun."

Harry had to suppress his laughter as they stood up and strode past Dean, who was now bending his Charms book so far back that Harry heard the spine crack. Ginny tactfully ignored him.

Harry didn't learn exceedingly much that evening, as most of it was spent chatting with Ginny; or sometimes staring at her, as in the case of the brief lapses of silence where she bent her head down to read something from a book or page of notes. He had thought he was being terribly subtle as he eyed her, but on one occasion she glanced up and met his eyes.

"Why're you watching me?" she said, trying to sound suspicious, but a smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

"Oh . . ." _Say something clever. Say something clever. _ ". . . I dunno."

_Damn._

Ginny propped her chin on her hand. "It's really discomforting. How would you like it if I stared at you all the time?"

_I'd love it, _Harry thought, but he only shrugged. "I s'ppose it would get a bit old." He grinned.

She laughed. "You could say that. . . . _Blimey,_ this is boring."

For a moment Harry felt rather hurt, thinking she was talking about her study session with him; then she gestured down to the notes she was attempting to review.

"History of Magic," she said ruefully. "I can't wait till next year; even if I pass my O.W.L., I refuse to take the class. I mean, it could be an interesting subject if anyone but Professor Binns taught it; the only person who could be more boring at a lecture than him is Percy."

Harry started to reply, but at that moment the shriveled librarian, Madam Pince, swooped down on them.

"The library is now closed!" she announced sternly. "Now off with you! Shoo! Shoo! And don't forget to return anything you've borrowed to the proper shelf!" She swept off, extinguishing lamps with her wand as she went.

"What's she so eager to get rid of us for?" Ginny asked irritably, rising.

"Probably off to a secret tryst with Filch," Harry muttered. Ginny giggled.

As they hurried back to the common room together, Harry felt suddenly self-conscious. The time spent with Ginny had felt almost like a study date. Going back to Gryffindor Tower, where Dean was probably lurking, brought him crashing back to reality: she was not dating him, she was dating his classmate. . . .

"Well," said Harry awkwardly, during the pause in front of the portrait hole where the Fat Lady was waiting, "this was—well, we should, er, do it again sometime. . . ."

Ginny smiled. "And since Hermione's talking to Ron again, that means Hermione'll be _bickering_ with Ron again, so we should have plenty of opportunities."

She gave the password and the Fat Lady swung forward to admit them. Harry felt somewhat depressed as he trudged after her. He had vaguely hoped she would take the hint about how _much_ he enjoyed the study session, but judging by her casual air he doubted she did.

Dean and Ginny made up the next day, though from what facts Harry could glean from Hermione it was a tentative truce, with some heavy apologizing on Dean's part. Though he was disheartened by their reconciliation, Harry still felt a surge of triumph: he was, after all, one-up on Dean. And until the joyous day when she kicked that good-for-nothing prat to the curb (_if_ it ever came—Harry blanched at the idea of attending their wedding), he would just have to make do with that.


End file.
